


Mad Maqahs

by craftybear



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies), Mad Max: Fury Road, Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Crossover, Discussion of PTSD, Gen, Grief, Involuntary Medical Procedures, Necromancy, Orc, Slavery, Torture, Undead, corpse defilement, dark iron dwarves - Freeform, death and agony, ghost hauntings, graphic description of gore, graphic description of violence, hozen, kodo beast, leper gnome, metaphor for terminal illness, more tags incoming, postapocalypse, tauren - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-29
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2019-01-26 06:50:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12551604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/craftybear/pseuds/craftybear
Summary: A lone Tauren walks the ravaged husk of Azeroth - a Sunwalker forsaken by his goddess, last survivor of his tribe, driven mad by the whispering spirits of his kin. His name is Maqahs Roka'tan, and he may be the only hope of survival for a group of fugitives from a mad necromancer's wasteland fortress...





	Mad Maqahs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A tauren gets captured and tormented. The Living Pale begins her journey.

_ When the world fell…  _

_...most people had greater concerns than preserving knowledge. Kingdoms burned along with their libraries. Scrolls were trampled by panicked masses. Stone etchings crumbled in earthquakes and were swallowed by broken earth. Only memories survived - tales repeated by survivors, taught by elders to those who did not remember Azeroth as she used to be. _

_ Azeroth. We say “she”, because the world we inhabit, although known by this name, was not the name’s true bearer. It was a shell - an egg in which the true Azeroth lay dormant, awaiting maturity. We know little of her nature and even less of her departure, but she was the soul of our world. Without her, everything just fell apart. The time before that was known as the Age of Chaos. What we could call this day and age is beyond my words. _

=+=

A heavy hoof fell on an unsuspecting lizard, then a scaly muzzle scooped up the dead reptile from the black sand. The kodo beast started chewing slowly, lazily eyeing her rider sitting on the nearby rock.  The tauren took a bite of his own food, scanning the horizon. It was hard to make out anything in the trembling hot air, with dust and ash swirling over the dry plain. The Burning Steppes were not a hospitable land. He narrowed his eyes - one dust cloud in particular looked alarming, and it was moving towards them.

Khola groaned as the tauren started picking up his gear and strapping it to her tack with quick, practiced moves. She knew what it meant - in a few moments they would start moving, as fast as possible, from whatever danger her rider had spotted on the horizon. With the last pack strapped up, the tauren climbed onto the saddle. “Go.”

Today was not their lucky day. In just a short while, the dust cloud caught up with them, spitting out roaring machines, grunting animals and screaming riders. Khola strained to outrun them, but suddenly there was an explosion, the world started spinning and she fell, numb from the pain in her side. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her tauren dragging himself to his feet, kicked down by pale figures swarming around them, and then… nothing.

=+=

On the first day, they filed off his horns.

They knew what they were doing, of course. When they started, he broke out of the ropes and gored the nearest one. He then ran off through the maze of dark tunnels, until he stumbled into a chamber filled with horrors. Corpses hung everywhere in pieces, and in the middle, there was Khola - metal rods jammed into her joints, parts of her skin flayed off. The ghosts screamed with him, and then the zombies caught up.

On the second day, they sheared him. Blades tugged painfully on his tangled mane and ripped at his matted beard. He snapped the shackles and bit off an offending arm, then ran again deeper into the maze, until they caught up and nearly drowned him in a pool of refuse. His tribe’s dead eyes stared at him from the bottom. The creeps dragged him back and almost drowned him again in cold water, shaved his snout bare and muzzled him.

On the third day, they branded him. The first touch of hot iron gave him strength to break the chains, trample the monsters and run off again. The ghosts chased him down, asking painful questions and demanding him to stop. He got outside, onto a high ledge, before ghouls swarmed him and dragged him back. Then the squat monster ran red hot letters over his back until he passed out, and then some more.

On the fourth day, he no longer struggled. They drove a spike through his hoof and put him in a hanging cage, a chain from the hoof to the ceiling. The ghosts would whisper for days, until the voices and noises of the Mountain finally drowned them out.

=+=

_ Black Rock Mountain. The hardships of our lives here are nothing compared to the past. Far back, beyond the Age of Chaos, it was one of the three grand dwarven kingdoms - the home of Dark Irons, bound in servitude to Ragnaros the Firelord. Torn by civil wars, shifting hands between dwarves, dragons and later orcs, the Mountain was a grim and hellish place. When the Immortan arrived, he ended ages-long conflicts and brought the Thorium Brotherhood back from exile, shaping them into a cult of his own. Dissenters were killed or cast down, destined to become starved wretches begging for scraps from Immortan’s table. Loyalty was rewarded with undeath, twice over for the chosen few, dubbed the Pale In Thorium. And despite his own lichdom, Immortan had a place for the living in his plans… though his designs were revolting on too many levels to count. _

_ But for all of Immortan’s evil, he brought order to Black Rock. No less bloody and terrible than the rule of his predecessors, it was still a solid foundation on which we are building today. _

=+=

The Warfury surveyed the gate area as she walked towards the Gwarig. The place was swarming with people both living and undead. Ghouls prowled the darker corners of the great hall, hopeful for some unwary wretch or lost pup to stray from the well-lit gateway. Deathsworn crawled all over the train of armored carriages, preparing them for departure. A few accepted necros hung from the Gwarig’s harness, strapping the gigantic beast into the train under Ace’s watchful eye, chanting one of their Deathsworn mantras to coordinate their moves.

“Hooked up!” - bellowed Ace. The dwarf’s face was smeared with chalk and charcoal, and coupled with his energetic moves, he looked almost alive. “Today we’re heading to Fuselight!”, he shouted, the necros repeating his words in acknowledgement. “We’re bringin’ to them tools and produce! On the way back we hit the Cauldron and load up on ore and weapons!” - he looked at the approaching Warfury and saluted. The orc woman raised her good hand in greeting and inspected the necros’ work. All seemed in order.

“All aboard!” - she instructed, climbing onto the Gwarig. The beast waited patiently, unmoving, until she reached the palanquin on its nape. Her Deathsworn crew clambered onto their train, taking their stations, escorts jumped onto their own mounts. She could leave at any time, but no - there was still the thrice-damned ceremony they had to witness.

Everyone’s eyes looked up to the platform hanging over the hall. A pale blue flame came to life around it, setting it apart from the reddish glow of the volcanic chamber and eliciting a murmur from the people below. Slowly, the noises gained rhythm and volume, turning into a chant.

“Immortan” - they called. “Immortan!”

The master of Black Rock Mountain knew how to stage his appearances, she had to hand it to the old bastard. He appeared on the platform with his entourage, bathed in cold light and locked into his grim armor, an imposing figure even from this distance. Most inhabitants of the Mountain only knew this majestic image. The Warfury knew better.

“My faithful” - the metallic, raspy voice echoed through the chamber, reverberating from the carefull carved ceiling. The chant died down instantly. “Once again we send the mighty Gwarig to bring back fuel from Fuselight and arms from the Cauldron. Once again, I salute my Warfury, the Sword of Black Rock, and I salute my loyal Deathsworn, who will one day ride with me, eternally, Pale In Thorium!”   
Chants rose up again, as the Deathsworn raised their arms in supplication. “Pale In Thorium!”, they cried. The Brotherhood stuffed their heads with the Immortan’s teachings, and the very mention of their reward made the poor corpses ecstatic. “Pale In Thorium!”

“I am your Life and Eternity!” - the Immortan bellowed over the masses. “By my hand, every one of you rose and shall ever rise from the ashes of death!”

The crowds roared in applause. Warfury knew what came next - the true reason for all the living wretches’ glee was not the oratory talent of their master, but the last part of the ritual. On the grim figure’s command, water trickled from the walls and food started dropping from the balconies above the hall. The wretched swarm dissolved into a life-or-death fight for these merciful scraps, distracting them from the convoy’s departure and the Immortan’s disappearance. In the shadows, ghouls watched and waited for the chaos to settle. Once the living vermin cleared out with the food, they would feast on the casualties.

The Warfury pushed these thoughts from her mind and focused on the road ahead. It was long enough to make her think twice about her plans, and the precious cargo below.

=+=

Organik the Fleshtinker, they called him – the dirty leper gnome who had branded and tormented Maqahs in his first days here. The squat little monster kept the living mostly alive and maintained the undead, but didn't seem to be much of a medic or necromancer. Whoever had animated all the corpses milling about the place had to be much more powerful. But despite being just a servant, Organik entered the hall with the imperiousness fit for a king.

“What's a dead monkey doing on my cot?” - he demanded. One of his child assistants rose from the floor to explain.

“He's not dead, just running on empty. His name is Nux.”

“Nux, huh? Nux, nux, nuxnuxnux...” - Organik muttered for a moment, before his head snapped up in recognition. „Ah yes, Nux. Driver, Deathsworn. Outta fuel, huh?” - his hands glided over the emaciated frame, tugging at loose stitches. Something chattered and snapped at him from inside the husk. “And infested, too! I keep telling you necros, no pets for you.”

Maqahs had watched such scenes countless times before. The leper gnome would either patch up the necros or, if they were too far gone, cut them up for spare parts. He would send the flesh off to feed the ghouls or assemble it into half-sentient monstrosities. Today seemed somehow different.

“Let's give this one some more time” – the Fleshtinker glanced up and met Maqahs' gaze. The tauren forced his eyes into a vacant stare. “Outlet collar number ten, collector collar number five. And drop me that hunk of beef.”

The floor of the cage suddenly opened. This had happened before, but Maqahs was never prepared for it. The chain around his hips and legs tightened, halting his fall and leaving him swinging with his head uncomfortably close to the ground. The leper gnome approached him, holding a huge metal collar in his hands.

“Hold it still. And be careful, this is a prime specimen! It could probably feed five of these” -  the gnome pointed at the monkey. The collar snapped shut around Maqahs' neck. Pain shot through his skin and burrowed deep into his flesh, hot and deathly cold at the same time. He growled and shook his head, sending the helpers flying back, but still helplessly suspended. “Aww, it doesn't like void-infused saronite. Medium gauge transfer cable.”

The pain slowly died down, turning into a throbbing, aching stiffness. The Fleshtinker fastened a tight metal rope to Maqahs' collar, then plugged the other end into a socket in a similar collar around the undead hozen's neck. The corpse's eyelids slowly broke open.

=+=

As they emerged from the pass into the Badlands, the Warfury bit her lip nervously. She thought again about the secret cargo hidden in the palanquin. She could just carry on with her orders, go to Fuselight, do the whole circuit and go back home - but then they’d be discovered anyway. No, the decision had been made the previous night and nothing could change it. She looked out the window, at her relaxed crew and escort. For them, this was a regular supply run, with no reason for extra alertness. Only Ace was doing his rounds over the train, making sure everyone was paying token attention. She took a deep breath and ordered the Gwarig to turn.

It didn’t take long for Ace to climb up to the palanquin. “What’s happenin’, Boss? The escort almost lost us. We’re not going to Fuselight?”

She looked straight ahead, afraid he might see the hesitation and fear in her eyes, but he pressed on. “What is this, Boss?” - he insisted. She finally forced herself to look at him.

“We’re going around south” - she said, hoping she sounded calm. The dwarf raised his eyebrows, then a look of realization showed on his face and he ducked out of sight. She heard him shouting commands below, whipping everyone into shape.  _ Just great, _ she thought, _ now they’re getting ready for a fight. _ At least they would be ready for Terror Wing Pass.

She wondered whether Fuselight had already noticed her deviation from the usual route. If they had, she could expect a patrol intercepting them before the pass.  _ But if they alert the Mountain, we’re in deep shit. _

Based on her experience, she expected the latter. 

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time posting on AO3 and my first attempt at writing in a long time. Advanced critique is welcome and sorely needed. If you'd like to, come say hi on tumblr (@piwnymisiek).


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